


let the more loving one

by broi



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Biting, Conflict, Hints of Bloodplay, M/M, Marking, Post-Coital, Theon being a dick, Theon not being honest, Unfinished Business, hints of bdsm, like one tiny mention of semen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-28
Updated: 2017-03-28
Packaged: 2018-10-12 07:23:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10485417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/broi/pseuds/broi
Summary: Jon watches Theon carefully.Theon tells lies.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Looking up at the stars, I know quite well  
> That, for all they care, I can go to hell,  
> But on earth indifference is the least  
> We have to dread from man or beast.
> 
> How should we like it were stars to burn  
> With a passion for us we could not return?  
> If equal affection cannot be,  
> Let the more loving one be me.
> 
> Admirer as I think I am  
> Of stars that do not give a damn,  
> I cannot, now I see them, say  
> I missed one terribly all day.
> 
> Were all stars to disappear or die,  
> I should learn to look at an empty sky  
> And feel its total dark sublime,  
> Though this might take me a little time.
> 
> WH Auden: The More Loving One

He rolls away and onto his back, his breath a fast, gasping laugh in his throat. The sheen of sweat on his shoulders and chest glistens pinkish-red in front of the dying fire and for a moment Jon watches the outline of his stomach and chest rise and fall, at first quickly, so very quickly, but then gradually slower, calmer, drawing out into deep, measured breaths. Jon knows that a long, satiated sigh will come next, and when it does, Jon watches the tendons in his neck snake up towards his proud jaw, and his dark hair spread out across the fur pelt where he lies. 

Jon could bite that stretched, pale neck. Not to hurt him. To mark it. Suck a bruise into it. _Mine._

“You’ve ruined me,” Theon Greyjoy says breathily. “ _Shit!_ ” One of the goblets next to the fire place skitters away with a metallic clatter as he flops an arm behind his head. 

Jon takes in the curve of his bicep, shoulder, collarbone. He could bite those, too. All of them. Gently, and harder. And he’d grab that dark tuft of hair nestled in the armpit and twist it until Theon yelps. 

“What are you smirking at, Snow?”

Jon averts his gaze, but his treacherous eyes land on the small, wet trail of seed across Theon’s thigh and up towards his softening cock.

“Don’t you get any ideas,” Theon murmurs. “It’ll probably fall off if you so much as breathe on it. What in the gods were you doing with your arse? I thought you were going to swallow me. As tight as a maiden, I swear it.”

“Didn’t you like it?”

Theon pushes himself up onto an elbow. His silhouette is dark against the glowing embers behind him. Jon’s eyes rake over the curve of his hip, the strong, taut quads, and then back up towards his lean torso, and to his flushed face. A wet slap of sweaty hair sticks to his forehead. Theon grins in concession. “I liked it.”

Jon starts to speak but hesitates, just noticeably long enough for Theon to say, _”What?”_

“I’m – I’m still – I mean—” 

Theon raises an eyebrow. “You know plenty well how to pull yourself off, Jon Snow.” 

“You wouldn’t -- you wouldn't just _leave_ me to -- to --”

A sigh of exasperation. “I’m _tired,_ Jon.”

“You’re an ass, Greyjoy.”

Theon leans over, stretching for the remaining goblet which he drains in a few gulps. Jon watches a single trickle of red wine run down Theon’s chin, like blood. He could lick it off so easily. Trail his tongue up Theon’s straight jaw, wet and messy, and across his lips. He’d taste the wine Theon had just drunk. Acidic. Warming. He’d pull at Theon’s bottom lip with his teeth. Theon would moan into his mouth.

Or Jon could hit him, again and again in the face. His nose would explode like a punched aubergine, his teeth skittering across the flagstones: tiny bloodied marbles. 

The droplet of wine falls from Theon’s chin and he wipes a rough hand across his mouth. His eyes meet Jon’s for a moment, and he shrugs. “I’m an ass.”

Jon watches, lying on his side, as Theon rolls easily to his feet, begins collecting his clothes from about the room. He huffs quietly as he picks up his leather overcoat with the kraken on it, discarded in a fit of passion inches from the fire, dusts it down and inspects it for marks. There’s something absurd about Theon standing, naked, the curve of his arse so deliciously round and his cock just sort of, _there_ , as he fawns over his coat in a sulk of mild indignation. _I could bite that arse,_ Jon thinks. _Just lean over, take his thighs in my hands so hard it leaves bruises, and bite him so suddenly he screams._

But instead Jon says, “Do you have to go?”

Theon is still facing away from him, towards the dying fire. “I’ve told you, Snow. I’m tired. You’ll have to finish yourself off—”

“Not for that. To – to sleep.”

For a moment Theon is silent. Jon watches the muscles in his back tighten, tense, twitch. And then the second has passed and Theon is picking up his shirt, pulling it roughly over his head, tugging his breeches on so quickly his foot catches on the waistband. “ _Fucks’ sake…_ ”

“Is the notion of sleeping in my bed so repulsive to you, Greyjoy?”

Theon glances down the length of Jon’s body where he lies on the fur pelt. “Put some clothes on, for the sake of the gods, Jon. We’ll get caught.”

Jon considers the rest of Winterfell, long asleep at this hour, and far away from his bastard’s chambers in the guilty shadows of the castle. He watches Theon shrug his overcoat across his broad shoulders. He listens to the leather creak, the only sound in the room’s swallowing silence. Jon wonders what it would sound like to take Theon’s arm, to bend it backwards across his shoulder, and force him face down on the cold flagstones. Would he hear the bones break? Would Theon’s pleas for mercy, his cracked and shattered sobs, drown it out?

“I hate you, Theon,” says Jon.

Theon sighs. “I wish you did. Things would be much easier.”

“Then I hate how you make me feel.”

Theon smiles, and Jon watches his lips. He can tell what Theon’s smiles mean from his teeth. The more teeth, the more insincere the smile. Theon’s lips remain closed. 

“That makes two of us, Jon Snow.”

Jon watches Theon move towards the door. He takes in Theon’s long, archer’s fingers as they grip the iron handle, and _oh,_ how his cock aches, and he burns with anger at how fucking unfair it is that Theon Greyjoy’s hand on a door can do that. Theon stops for a moment, and Jon watches the curve of his jaw as he half-looks back, half hesitates.

“You don’t have to go, Theon.” 

Those slender fingers tighten on the handle. “I _do._ ”

“Stay in my bed. Stay with me.”

And Jon watches Theon leave.


End file.
